The complexities of love
by Lady Domino
Summary: Oneshot. A letter, written by Ron Weasley. Unrequited love, and its terrible consequences. Very mild slash. Pairing RWHP. Not banal! Please R&R!


_Disclaimer: I don't own it! Please don't burn me at the stake as a witch!_

_A/N: Personally i don't believe in Ron/Harry pairings (see my rant) but my good mate Amicable Crayon challenged me to write this. What's a writer to do, when called upon to prove herself? I thought for a while, veering away from anything cliched, anything banal, anything improbable. And I came up with this. Be NICE with the reviews. It's a whole new world for me._

* * *

Hey.

You know what Draco Malfoy said once? He said we 'acted like a married couple'. You laughed and told him that if that was the worst he could come out with, he'd lost his touch. Me? I was terrified by what he had seen in us. I resolved to hide my feelings even more. I asked out Lavender the next day, and then Hermione flounced off and you with her, and I was afraid that I'd hurt you. I thought about the two of you talking about me, bitching about me together (you DID bitch), even as I shoved my tongue down that girl's throat. I didn't want her. I should never have stooped so low as to ask someone else out to distance myself from the people I truly love. I'm sorry, but hey, I paid the price, didn't I?

I'm getting ahead of myself. I always do that. I don't have Hermione's eloquence, nor Malfoy's silver tongue, nor your simple sincerity that just made you so endearing. Dumb old Ron Weasley. I'm not clever. I'm not a poet. I couldn't give you the moon, even if I wanted to write it for you with my whole heart. I'd give you something stupid, and badly put, and it would probably unnerve you. So I didn't dare tell you how I felt, in case I put it wrongly.

I couldn't live with a gulf between us.

Even though we used to fight, I hated it, and that's why I took so long to forgive. I hated it when you were angry with me, and I hated myself for being stupid enough to make you mad. I guess most of the time you were right and I was wrong. I hate feeling so stupid. Blind Ron Weasley, refusing to believe that you were innocent, when you protested it at every turn. I thought you wanted glory. How could I have? I'm such a fool! Even by our Fourth Year I should have known you well enough to realise that you were telling me the truth. You couldn't lie to save your life, anyway.

And here I am, trying to write a love letter and all that's coming out is 'I hate, I hate'. Why is it so hard for me? Why can't I just pull myself together and tell you the truth? Why could I never do it when it really mattered? Hermione. She was the problem. I loved you, but I _liked_ her enough to settle for second best. Sorry; that's a dreadful way to talk about my wife, but that's what she was. Then. Now I live for her, of course. And our kids; Bonnie and little Harry. That's awful, isn't it? Naming a kid 'Harry', when there are a thousand kids being christened that every day. The legacy of the great Harry Potter, the mighty legend, eh? Funny how things work out.

But I was talking about Hermione. You want the truth? The honest, honest, straight-from-the-heart truth? I knew you'd never be mine. I watched you with your first girlfriend, and then the next and then the next and I was so jealous. Ever since I first saw you, looking all lost and alone, unaware of your own significance, I've just wanted to be there for you. But I'm a fool. A proud, proud fool. Thank God it wasn't my sister who you slept with first. I doubt I could have lived with that. But you moved on from her, to that girl training to be an auror. What was her name? Do you even remember? The girl you first slept with, and I hated her for it. Hatred, hatred, is that all I can feel?! Hatred and jealousy and wounded pride. Perhaps it's best that I distanced myself from you and your girls. There were so many of them. You were in a hurry to live, because every time you looked behind you, you saw death coming, reaching out for you. So you took them all, took what they had to offer and gave them yourself for a few months in return. They always came off the best in that bargain you struck with them, but you never saw that. So many girls; some simply pretty, some really beautiful. All bold and demanding. You had a thing for strong women (and it didn't take you long to move from girls to women!), and every one of them made me feel so inferior. So PLAIN. There was even that one kiss you shared with that Deatheater, Bellatrix Lestrange. And all I could do was wish that she'd teach you a lesson. But she didn't. She kissed you and you parted and went back to being enemies without any problems at all. What a simple life you had!

And me? I broke up with Hermione. Dated several other girls that I found hanging around. After that? Six months of one-night stands. And then Dancy. I'm sorry for that, I truly am. But I was aching so much inside, and she had hurt you so badly. I didn't even know you had any vulnerabilities left, but she found that single one and thrust a knife between your ribs. Not literally, of course. You'd have killed her. I just thought I'd try out a metaphor there. But I'm stalling. The truth is she had got closer to you than anyone else had for years, and she had touched your soul. I think you really loved her. And she stabbed you in the back. So what did I do? I slept with her. Not just once, either. I'm sure she found it most amusing. I didn't care. I felt that when I was with her I was striking a blow against you, for all those years of unrequited love. I didn't realise that I had stopped loving you a long time ago. I didn't realise that it had turned into hatred so black it tarred my soul, so strong that the Dark Lord himself approached me.

I was back with Hermione then. Somehow she made me feel better, like things were as they used to be. You'd come to see her, and then I'd catch glimpses of you. You never came to see me now. I guess I scared you. I guess, without meaning to, I drove you away. This one time you came, you left your jacket behind. It smelt of you, and when I held it in my arms I felt like crying. I put it in a drawer, and locked the drawer, and hid the key. If I could have put you in that drawer, and locked it, and kept the only key, I would have.

And Voldemort came to me.

I was terrified. Can you imagine? I was still branded as your friend and I thought 'This is the end, Ron'. The end of dreams and nightmares and everything and nothing. I'd never even kissed you.

The first thing he said was your name. I nearly passed out. I was certain he must have read my mind and seen you there. Now what? Would he attempt to use me as a hostage to get something from you? Would he kill me to hurt you? I could have wept. What a foolish waste! You wouldn't care. You long ago gave up caring for me. But instead he started talking about your arrogance, about your pride, about your selfishness. About the way everyone loved you, and none of those fools knew how you mistreated those who remained truly loyal. Of course, I placed myself in that grouping. Loyal? Me? The man who dreamed of _forcing_ you to love me? The man who wanted to see you cry, just so that he could hug you and make it better? I wasn't loyal. But Voldemort's words sounded so reasonable, so right that I found myself agreeing with him, exchanging stories with him. Before I realised it I had _betrayed_ you.

And you suffered for it.

And yes, I had a change of heart. Some small part of me still truly loved you, and that part of me told the Aurors where to find you. I went with them. I helped them chase Voldemort and his Deatheaters away. I was praised for that. The loyal friend. The hero of the hour. You held my hand and smiled beneath the pain, and a flame that had long ago died down to the tiniest embers was rekindled in me.

But Voldemort isn't a fool.

Somehow he knew I could not be trusted.

And he knows spells we mere mortals could never dream at.

I researched the one he used on you, afterwards. _Mors Mora_. Hermione knows her Latin. Literally it means: Death with Delay. A strange spell. I still don't know how it works, but then that's me, isn't it? Stupid Ron Weasley. We were so blind. We couldn't see that you were dying before our very eyes.

It took you three days to die.

I think you realised what was happening by the second day.

You didn't even tell us until the morning of the third one.

And it was too late.

And you thanked me, for being a good friend. For being there for you. For being loyal. For 'putting up with your moods'.

I couldn't tell you the truth.

_I love you._

_I killed you._

'I hope you don't mind, Hermione,' you said. 'But I don't think I'll get an opportunity like this again.' And you kissed me gently on the mouth. It was friendship and affection. No more. But I clung to you like a drowning man.

And you didn't kiss Hermione.

It's been two years, Harry. You remember that flame you rekindled? It's still burning, so strong it sometimes causes me pain. And it's burnt me clean. All of the evil, all of the jealousy, all of the hatred is gone.

I loved, and I love and I will love you, Harry Potter.

Sincerely,

Ron Weasley

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_Yeah, so there it is. Tell me what you think. -Dommy-_


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